“What do you think of Sandra?” I ask Sawyer as I snag a signed baseball from a display case along the far wall of his office. I settle into one of the guest chairs across his desk and toss the ball over my head before catching it again.

He’s reviewing something on his monitor and he pauses at my question and turns his attention to me. “You know she’s the best executive assistant I’ve ever had. Do you need her help with something? I thought you were happy with Preston?”

Somehow human resources only assigns me gay men or women old enough to have birthed me. I suspect that’s on direct orders from Sawyer. Dick.

I give the ball another toss and catch. “No, I meant, what do you think of Sandra as a woman?”

“I don’t,” Sawyer says, narrowing his eyes at me.

“She’s got a thing for me,” I say.

“She doesn’t,” Sawyer says dismissively and taps the mouse on his desk, intent on ignoring me.

“She does,” I insist. “She’s always looking at me.”

“Maybe she thinks you’re an idiot.”

That’s a distinct possibility. I’ve never been quite sure. Most of the time she ducks her head and calls me Mr. Laurent as she scurries past. It fucking turns me on, but I’m not sure if it turns her on or if she honestly just thinks I’m an asshole.

“I think she’s dating someone in marketing,” Sawyer adds while tapping on his keyboard, engrossed with whatever’s on the screen in front of him.

“They broke up over the summer,” I say confidently, leaning back in the chair and tossing the ball a little further in the air.

“How do you know that?” Sawyer stops typing and crosses his arms across his chest. He doesn’t look pleased with my knowledge of Sandra’s dating life; I think he views her like the little sister he never had. “What could you possibly want to do with Sandra anyway?”

I catch the ball as my brows raise in disbelief. “You need me to spell it out for you, buddy?” I lean forward in the chair and adopt a serious tone. “Sometimes, when two people are attracted to each other, they enjoy taking their clothing off together so they can—”

“Shut up,” Sawyer interrupts. “She’s not really your type.”

“Beautiful?” I question.

“Sweet,” he replies.

She is sweet, he’s right about that. I think about the paper burning a hole in my pocket and wonder again if it was hers. I’d like it to be hers. I think sweet Sandra has a hidden dirty side, and I’d really like to uncover it.

About Jana Aston:

Jana Aston is the New York Times bestselling author of WRONG. She quit her super boring day job to whip up more books and is hoping that was not a stupid idea. In her defense, it was a really boring job.